Sunday, December 7, 2014

A Surprising View from on High

I hear continual comments of envy over the spectacular views
I enjoy from my perch high on this mountain.
The ever changing pastels of the sunrises and sunsets, the glittering
vista of the valley below, the majestic crests of the Great Smoky Mountains
National Park on the horizon, and the breath taking array of the flora and
fauna of the forest canopy keep my interest and curiosity piqued. It is, and always will be, my quiet respite
from the computer screens and intellect deprived television programming. The views are never the same, even from
minute to minute. I can’t count the
number of times that I stepped outside and saw something so unique that I scrambled for a camera only to miss the lighting by mere seconds. So it has become habit to carry my phone, if
not my camera, each and every trip to the second floor deck that adorns my
mountain abode.

Several nights ago, having spent the last reserves of my ocular
energy on a tedious trial transcript, feeling pretty low and rather lonely, I
poured a glass of wine and stepped outside to enjoy my world as the sun set on
the Tennessee side of the ridges and the valley lights began to mark the arrivals
of the worker ants returning from their daily labors. The December weather has been comfortably temperate
(especially after the frigid and snowy November we endured), so I stood
sweaterless as I looked out across the lowlands.

My dogs had followed me out to keep me company, and although
I love their companionship, I must confess that their conversational talents
are far from entertaining. I asked them,
as I frequently do, what was going on in the world this beautiful night. They responded with a curious and
non-understanding stare, so I teased them with a, “I wonder if Angel is coming?” That kept their attention for some minutes as
they watched through the darkness for the nomadic dog that comes almost daily
for a visit and play date.

Turning my attention back to the darkened valley, I notice a
plumb of smoke rising from a small knoll about three miles from my house. As the night sky grew deep, I could see
multiple glows from a circumference of fire and thought it was an odd time,
much too dry, and a wee bit windy for someone to be burning brush outdoors.

I stepped in and grabbed my always-at-the-ready binoculars
to be sure there was a vigilant attendant, but there was no one in sight. I
widened my scan looking for emergency lights, and found them equally absent. Admittedly, there was some hesitation in me
about calling the authorities knowing that there were so many houses on that
hillside that someone either had noticed the fire, or it was a controlled burn
with the human factor simply hidden from view in the darkness.

I finally succumbed to that inner voice whispering, “But
what if….?” I dialed 911 with an
apologetic, “I’m sure someone has already reported this,” and explained my
distant vantage point and the approximate location of the fire. 911 stated there had been no report and even
asked that should it be necessary, could the fire department come up to my
house to help them spot the location. I
assured the dispatcher that the fire would be clearly visible from the road.

My view from on high became a different experience that
night. In the far distance I can see the
fire station on Carolina Boulevard, I watched as the volunteers arrived and
launched the tanker. I could hear the shrill
sirens as they wound their way back along Thompson Cove Road and made the turn
onto Hideaway Creek. The fire continued
to spread to the point where trees ignited and the flames cast an eerie orange
glow in the forest below. The brave
firefighters arrived in the nick of time.
It did not take them long to extinguish the flames, but I am sure it
felt like an eternity to the people who dwell on that hillside.

In the days since, I have looked, both through the
binoculars from my deck, and from the roadside on the way to town, I cannot see
the scars of the errant flames. All is better
now; as I finish these words, the sun is painting glorious colors in the west,
my dogs are playfully wrestling, and the home lights are beginning to dot the
landscape. There are no mysterious
plumbs rising from the forest floor, and that’s just the way I like it. The only illuminations I care to see in the trees are Christmas lights.

4 comments:

I was more surprised than you. I discussed it with a couple of friends and I guess it could be attributed to the time of day. People had recently arrived from work, I am sure supper (in the South dinner is eaten at midday) was cooking, the television news was on, and no one was outside looking (but me).

Living deep in the Smoky Mountain forests, I do think about the catastrophic consequences of a wild fire. Mountain folks are cautiously private and it wasn't until I was more than halfway certain that no one was watching the fire or that there was any "alarms" raised that I felt comfortable calling 911. I must admit when the fire started going up into the trees, I was cussing the amount of time that the truck took coming back our rural roads and wishing I had called earlier. But as I said, all is well.

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About Me

I grew up in the farmlands of southern New Jersey. In my early adulthood, I explored and migrated to the over-populated, mono-climate peninsula of Florida, and stayed until I could take it no longer. After coming to my senses, I escaped rat-race and elbow-to-elbow crowds of urbanity to the Edenic rural sanctuary of Waynesville in western North Carolina at the edge of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.